


In What Stumbling Ways

by FearNoEvil



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Character Study, F/M, Family, Fatherhood, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Regret, T for Mature Themes and mild language (especially extensive use of the word 'bastard')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FearNoEvil/pseuds/FearNoEvil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the biggest mistake of Alexander Hamilton's life has EVEN MORE unforeseen consequences - or, the one where Hamilton gets Maria Reynolds pregnant, has an existential crisis about fathering a bastard, and struggles to do The Honorable Thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In What Stumbling Ways

There was a hammering of his heart, a sharp constriction in his throat, and his grip slackened, sending the letter fluttering down to the floor. Then in an instant he snatched it back up again. Re-scanning the words, he hoped he’d somehow misread, misunderstood.  But they did not leave room for interpretation, so failing that, he frantically re-checked the handwriting, hoping it belied some trick or deceit.  But no, it was still unmistakably the all-too-familiar slanting hand of Maria Reynolds.

  
_James doesn’t know yet, but I can’t hide it from him much longer. You deserve the truth, though, my love, for I’ve always, always known you as man of honor._

A man of honor.

  
Alexander sank down into his chair, his fingers clenching and tightening on the letter. For a mad instant, he fought the urge to tear it to shreds. _He_ , a man of honor. He, who had only mustered the will to end his adulterous love affair a month ago. He, Alexander Hamilton, the bastard brat of a Scotch peddler, about to follow in his father’s footsteps and father a bastard of his own.

  
_The poor child,_ he thought miserably _. His_ poor child _._ Keenly he still felt the sharp stings of all Adams’s insinuations, still awaiting his answering blows; keenly he could remember the humiliation of being barred from the church school, of being laughed at and indiscriminately provoked.  That taint was his punishment for the sins of his father. _And they will do that to you, too, my child. And_ I _did that to you._

  
Why had he never thought of it? He might have thought of it – he _should_ have thought of it – _before_ he succumbed to temptation. He should have thought of - a great _many_ things - _before._ But no, just like his dear foolish father, he’d had to just help himself, indifferent of the consequences, the collateral damage. Perhaps it was in his blood, a symptom of that tainted nobility. Perhaps James Hamilton had begun a line of bastards who would beget bastards from now until doomsday.

  
(But at least James Hamilton had not betrayed an innocent wife in the process.)

  
Was there any way to spare his child from that lifelong taint? Unbidden and abrupt as was his wont, the ghost of John Laurens drifted up into his mind. He’d told Alexander, eventually, how he’d married the woman in England to preserve the honor of his child, to save her from that fate. John would always do the honorable thing. And, he remembered, it had been a damned lucky escape for little Theodosia, too, that her mother’s first husband died when he did. The world was full of bastards, and near-bastards. Why did anyone _care_ anymore?

  
But Alexander could not follow Laurens and Burr’s example for the simple fact that Maria was a married woman, he a married man. When the child was born, therefore, if he did not intercede, most people would assume Maria’s husband was the father. The child could pass for legitimate if only Hamilton was able to keep his mouth shut.

  
But what kind of father would James Reynolds be, for what kind of husband had he been? A man who’d called his own wife a whore – he was as bad as Johann Lavien, his mother’s first husband. Worse, maybe. Hamilton had seen from the start the same scar in Maria that his dear mother had always carried – that beaten-down survival practicality borne of despair.

  
And before even that consideration, would the man even stand for raising a child that he must know was not his own? Or would he spurn the child on principle? Leave that innocent soul a poor fatherless bastard with a destitute mother working herself to an early, not unwelcome grave? Doomed to the necessity of learning too young, far too young, that they must fend for themselves to survive?

  
Alexander felt suddenly sick. Sickened with himself that he’d even considered abandoning his child like that, that in his blood was the same craven weakness as his father. His office seemed to spin about him and he tried to bury his head in his arms, tried to shut out the raging tempest that cried for release. He couldn’t breathe. He could almost feel and hear the winds whipping, see the yellow sky, his office spinning and reeling faster and faster, and he was drowning, unable to find air without water, too much in his lungs already - there was a quiet so deafening his heart almost stopped, the eye of the hurricane which would not spare him this time – until it all found release in a long, muffled, hysterical sob against his arms. Then with a desperate inhalation all was quiet again.

  
Mopping his eyes and still trying to slow his desperate breaths, he hoped no one had heard him. Straining to listen for sounds of activity in the house, he could still faintly hear the cheerful tune of the pianoforte come gliding up from downstairs. It was not any melody Alexander recognized, which meant that most likely it was Philip playing. Dear, brilliant Philip, to whose infant smile he had sworn not to follow his father’s lead.

  
That was right - he had sworn it, on his honor.  So no, no, he would _not_ be James Hamilton. It wasn’t a cycle, it wasn’t _in his blood_ – it was a _choice._ It had been a choice to bed Maria, and what he did now was equally a choice. Saying he was doomed by his father’s example was a _filthy_ excuse. No, he would not be James Hamilton. Shutting his eyes a moment, he repeated the vow he had made for each of his children: _Fear not, my child, for I swear that I’ll be around for you._

  
The last of his foolish tears cleared, his eyes fell again on the last words of Maria’s letter on the desk in front of him: “. . . _for I’ve always, always known you as a man of honor_.”

  
That’s what he’d told Eliza, too – back when honor was _all_ he had. Back before he’d betrayed her, before he’d vilely pawned it away to satisfy his lust. How ironic, really, that Maria had lured him in with words of honor, used his love of honor to compel to forfeit it. Whatever else she was, she was a very clever woman.

  
Now, though, Eliza must be undeceived, which was going to break her heart, and his. For now he must do the honorable thing; _now_ his only option was – honesty. He would do the honorable thing by his child, by his wife, and by Maria, too. And perhaps one day, he could again be worthy of her esteem. One day, perhaps, he could regain the honor he’d surrendered.  But this was the only way to start.

  
For his child's sake then he would face her entirely justified wrath. He would put himself to the hazard. He would claim the child. He knew he would be exposing Eliza to heartbreak and humiliation, exposing mother and child to the world’s harsh calumny, but by God, he would defend them.

  
Defending all of them was his duty now, for he knew he had taken Maria’s honor, too. They had each taken the other’s honor and doted on the exchange. Now the world could say what it liked about any of them, but it would have to answer to him for it. If James Reynolds or Jefferson or Monroe or Adams or anyone had a word to say – well, he knew a man with a good set of dueling pistols. He would lose his reputation, perhaps, but by _God,_ he would regain his _honor._

  
Thus resolved, he surge to his feet and on unsteady legs made his way downstairs. There was Eliza, stitching a tear in little Angelica’s petticoat, and smiling over and Philip and Angelica seated together on the piano bench inventing a duet.

  
He was about to wipe away that smile, he knew. And what a lovely smile it was, pure in its love for their darling children. _Why wasn’t it enough for you?_

  
He steeled himself. _The honorable thing, Hamilton.  Like John._   “Betsey, my love?”

  
She turned the smile toward him. A surprised smile now, confused at his being out of his office at this hour. “Yes, dear?”

  
He took another breath, and for a moment he couldn’t do it. The smile was too beautiful, and it was too essential to him. And it wasn't the only one -the whole family would know. Peggy, his dear Mrs. Patroon, so admiring and confiding, would never again look up to him for guidance. His dearest, Angelica, the clever and sharp-tongued Mrs. Carter would never forgive him for this betrayal of her most beloved sister, would never again hang upon his commas as her only breath of life from across the sea. His dear father-in-law, who had welcomed a penniless bastard orphan into his family with open arms, with the one poor condition that he “be true” to his daughter –

  
“Alexander, darling, are you quite well?”

  
Her sweet concern was enough to break him, but no, no – it must _inspire_ him to be his better self. He _would_ do the honorable thing, and be worthy of her. He _must._   He knew was only afraid for his own sake; he knew who he’d married, knew his dear Eliza would pity an innocent child, and want to do right. He knew that much of her, and loved her for it. She deserved his confidence.

  
He summoned his courage – and he required quite a lot: more, it seemed at this moment, than it had taken to board the ship for New York,  than to fight a duel, more courage than the war or the cabinet had ever required of him, more than he’d ever needed to marshal before – and with the final thought of _at least you won't have to pay blackmail anymore_ , he spoke.

  
“Come to the study with me a moment, my dear,” he said, his voice more uncertain than the day he’d met Aaron Burr. “I have – much to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> In fine me-fashion, I flee from conflict and leave the Hamilton-Eliza drama to more practiced hands. It's too painful for me. I can't even listen to "Burn". On a happier note, who else smells an amazing redemption arc?? "Jean Valjean is nothing now! Another story must beGIIIIIIIIIIIN!"
> 
> I . . . still can't believe I actually wrote this. What would my parents say? What am I becoming? But - I just really wanted to explore this concept? It's still - more innocent than some stuff. It's OK I wrote this. I am an adult. I can explore adult themes. I'm not even glorifying the wrongness. People do wrong things and I have the right to write about them trying to make it right. It's not wrong. Right?
> 
> Leave comments and reassure your prim and maidenly author. I need to go write absurdly innocent fluff now.
> 
> Title is from a quote from the John Keats biopic "Bright Star", where John finds out his pal got the housemaid pregnant and comments, "In what stumbling ways a new soul is begun." It was between that and the too on-the-nose "Bastard Son of a Bastard", a quote from "The Glass Menagerie" which in that play's context wasn't actually about literal bastards but about men who abandon their families, so . . . still kinda relevant.
> 
> (Also, if you got here from Hamilton Prompts, welcome! I was the one who wrote the original prompt but while the Prompt page was out of commission I got impatient and wrote it myself. That's why the language in the summary is so similar to the prompt. It was written before the prompt was finally posted.)
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!


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